dans les reves n dat

The cobbles in the streets seem out of place. They could’ve been houses, a place and not a path. I wonder if you have to choose: worry that each brick I’ve placed for someone else to walk is one less brick for myself.

When I am home, I overpower myself. There is too much of me here, and it’s hard to be anything else when you’re surrounded by what you are. What that is matters to me, but I’m not sure it does to anyone else. The best I can do is close my eyes – but, even then, the light slips in.

On the days where I am not riddled by exhaustion, I dream in the afternoons. But by night, the cobbled streets are submerged beneath dark water, and shapes swirl around me in the shadows.